Concerto for the Dead
by Naruke
Summary: Life went on, but Takeru couldn't follow. NOT a happy fic [oneshot, character death, AU]


**Author's note:** I do not own Digimon; the show is property of Toei Animation. I have no idea where the hell this came from. A few lines from a Diana Gabaldon book, an English assignment, and absurd fascination for dark Daikeru fics resulted in this bad boy. Enjoy.

**-Concerto for the Dead- **

Daisuke had envisioned himself doing several things after Hikari died, but stuffing his hand down Takeru's pants was not one of them. It wasn't inspired by libido or anything of the sort. Daisuke simply took one look at Takeru's face and decided a hand in the pants would improve matters.

He guessed it was about a month and a half after Hikari had died _(time didn't really matter after that)_ and Takeru was still having a hard time. Daisuke didn't really blame him; every so often he would hear his cell phone ring and feel that inexorable spiral of hope deep within himself _(it was never her)._

Takeru froze entirely; the only thing moving was Daisuke's thumb on his left hand, rubbing the finger next to it. The other boy's tongue darted out in a flicker, a giant pink firefly winking over the pale of his lips. The red-haired boy could almost make out the blonde's thought process. He always did have a glass face.

Suddenly, though it didn't catch him unawares, Takeru slammed his fist into Daisuke's jaw. Stars prickled behind his eyes and he felt his blood heat with the promise of a fight. Adrenaline rose inside him, and he felt his hand connect with the soft muscle of Takeru's abdomen. But Takeru wasn't going down without a fight.

Their fists collided with each other's body, the stinging ring of slaps, punches, and kicks filling the odd silence in Daisuke's apartment. He was glad of the noise; it had been too quiet since he'd gotten rid of the sound of Hikari kisses.

Finally, it wasn't even about Takeru versus Daisuke. It was about memory versus forging a new path without light. It had been too long since they had really felt the touch of another _(warm, cold, breathing, living)_ person and it was like suddenly becoming unthawed. Daisuke was simply too tired to dominate anymore. He let Takeru's dislike of him and the act they were committing wash through him and then bleed out with the release of his seed.

He liked this dance, this little tango between sex and destruction.

---

They must have been barely seventeen at the time, drunk on youth and the promise of the future. The whole gang was there, making merry _(for tomorrow she will die)_. Daisuke sat in the corner of the booth, partially content with nursing his drink. He was itching for…something. A Hikari kiss, maybe.

She'd kissed him three times. Three. The first time was after her fourteenth birthday when he took her out to lunch. Almost two years went by before she kissed him again. They were a couple, of a sort, and she kissed him, he kissed her neck, he kissed her belly, he kissed her all over. The third kiss was before New Year's, four days before her birthday.

Daisuke frowned at his cup. She had tasted different that time. He wasn't stupid enough to believe it was the mint she'd just eaten. He'd tasted his own seed on her lips enough to know that he had tasted someone else's semen. He had expected a lot of things from her, but promiscuity was not one of them. A loud burst of laughter from across the way jolted him out of his semi-lustful thoughts.

Takeru.

It all clicked. Hikari and Takeru had always been close as peas in a pod. It fit. Daisuke bit down on the rim of his cup and smoothed the crease he knew was gathering betwixt his eyebrows. Judging from Takeru's awkward gait, he was already fairly gone. But Hikari…

Somehow they'd coaxed him out of his seat and into the alleyway behind the bar. He was the only one sober enough to realize that they were all angry, angry at something; the simmering was beginning to boil. Sadly, Daisuke noted he was utterly tired of her pandering, of his incessant chatter, and his own apathy to the whole situation. Why was he mad then?

Because there was constantly a song playing for her in his head, dancing a lackadaisical jig around his mind. She was tottering for the street now; something prickled up his spine. He was angry, he really hated and loved her, but he was so far away, so apathetic to the whole damn thing and she was…

Walking.

---

Daisuke's thumb twitched against his ring finger again. His apathy was dangerous, but that car had killed her. Takeru had left quite a while back or maybe just a few minutes ago.

He wasn't gay. It wasn't any other guy that affected him the way Takeru did. He wasn't bi, because it was only Takeru. But he wasn't entirely straight. Was he naïve _(oh, Christ, incredibly)_? Was it only because he was young _(oh, God, undeniably)_?

Was it simple curiosity or some deeper, angrier, more feral emotion that made him seek what he did? That taste of Takeru's semen on his lips had done something to his brain, fried it beyond repair.

Maybe they were young, but could one consider them innocent? He couldn't really tell.

---

The song played again in his head as he wandered unseeingly into the Yagami's apartment. It grew to a jarring screech when he saw her smiling picture _(his birthday present to her just a few days ago)_ with the black ribbon draped witheringly around the top corners. Poor Taichi, poor Yagami-san. Poor seventeen-year-old blonde boy in the ridiculous bucket hat, Takeru.

His scalp itched from the missing weight of glasses. His hair was a mess, his insides were a mess, and his blood pressure was rising by the moment. That damn anger again, simmering underneath that layer of apathy. Who was he trying to impress here? Hikari and her Hikari kisses were gone; he would never again feel her heaving breaths as he brought her to the edge again and again.

All that was left was that stupid stupid _stupid_ bucket-hat wearing boy whose semen he had tasted on her lips hours before her death. Inexplicably, the anger fell away as quickly as it had come, replaced by something more hollow, more hot to his probing thoughts.

Takeru turned then and saw him. His blue eyes widened and then narrowed. The anger and distaste practically flickered over his skin and Daisuke could see the sparks as the other boy's inner machinery began a total system meltdown. Takeru had the courtesy, however, to lead him outside before they began their shouting match.

Accusations ran fast and thick; you were closer, you loved her more, _she_ loved _you_ more, I hate you, yeah well _I_ hate _you. _And then it rained. Or it did in his mind's view. The rain poured down on them, fog creeping in around their feet. Takeru's hat, flung off in a fit of anger, was swept off into a storm drain _(damn hat and all you stand for)_ and the blonde's hair was flat against his head. His own auburn locks were sticking uncomfortably to his forehead, pricking his eyes and making him blink.

His mind's-eye view showed them unnaturally tall, one's hair a dark brown in the wet, the other's nearly white. Tuxes on the both of them, hatred etched into one face and immeasurable sadness on the other. He'd seen something similar on TV, he recollected; his own drama was superimposed over that anime image, with Hikari's damn concerto or whatever the hell it was exploding through his mind.

Life went on, but Takeru couldn't follow.

---

Daisuke lay on his back, staring unblinkingly at his dirty, smoke-stained tiles. How do you tell someone you don't actually hate them when you were both pretty sure you did? The thought constantly hounded him. His fucked-up mind wasn't simply content to think one thought, feel one emotion; it must be the godamn devil's advocate and make him angry and want to kill Takeru, but also make him sad and want to make everything better for Takeru.

He'd read plenty of western literature that posed the question 'What does God's laughter sound like?' He really hadn't the foggiest and didn't care. But heartbreak, he knew what that sounded like.

Daisuke had heard plenty of descriptions of heartbreak. It felt like glass being dug into your leg. When it cracked, it sounded like thunder or Satan's laughter; other times it was a single bell chime or glass breaking in that clean, crisp way it sometimes does. But none of that was really true.

The sound of a heart breaking was a very small sound indeed, like the click of the door as Takeru left him.

--

It must have been only hours after that, when he had dragged himself to work that he realized the apathy was dissipating. The laziness was still in its place, but the apathy, the complete absence of care, was gone; it was trapped somewhere in the hole where Hikari had been.

Where there used to be apathy, there was a strange, grotesque form of love. Where there used to be Hikari kisses, now there was Takeru's stupid bucket hat. The hat that had floated away in the drain in front of the Yagami's apartment.

Daisuke stopped sweeping. He replayed his pseudo-anime in his mind again and saw, for the first time, the caged, terrified look on Takeru's face. _Come find me come save me _it said. Then the rain came down, and the hat was swept away. Even with the rain, Daisuke could see each individual tear making its way down Takeru's face. The despair was washed away and replaced with something calculating, something hurting. _Come break me come feel love_ this face said. His thumb brushed against his index again in a high nervous twitch. God, but he was stupid.

He set the broom down and left his shell. Daisuke imagined it raining again, clogging up the drain so Takeru's hat wouldn't be lost forever. The empty hole in his chest was filling with water too, but he wasn't drowning, just rising to the surface of something new.

Hikari's song was wafting through his head again, but this time, it wasn't for her.


End file.
